


up to no good

by divinetock3



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Reader-Insert, Spoilers, i need to revisit his movies after this good lorddddd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinetock3/pseuds/divinetock3
Summary: after a chance meeting, quentin beck offers to show reader some of his work.





	up to no good

**Author's Note:**

> song: up to no good by the hoosiers  
> i saw far from home yesterday afternoon and it was so fun, whatta cute spider man talkie, but ofc my love for jake gyllenhaal that has lasted me about five years now has erupted and he's just......Great. we love a batshit performance!

This is batshit insane. And [Name] saw people turn to dust. That’s saying something.

She isn’t the type to sneak off to the workplace of a man she just met at a bar and who’s name— _Quentin Beck? You sound like a movie-spy_ —she has only just discovered. And yet here she is, following the lead of said man as he guides her into a taxi he’s just hailed. He’s unbearably close to her in the backseat and the heat from him is adding to the fog from the alcohol simmering in her belly. He gives an address and the driver takes off. She isn’t drunk, but being around this man is undoubtedly stirring something within her akin to tipsiness. Maybe it’s because she’s just lonely.

Either way, this Quentin fella is a stranger, but they’ve spent the past two hours talking up and down from hating work to living in New York to the blip. The lattermost was maybe a little too heavy for a Thursday night at the local bar, but sometimes when you’ve had a couple drinks and the stranger beside you is nice enough, some upsetting stuff comes out. I mean, damn, she still wakes up from nightmares because of it. You don’t just move on from that like everything is peachy-keen. 

They met coincidentally. Well, maybe not so much. Some creep came saddling up wondering if the seat beside her was taken and before she could decide whether to lie or just tell him to leave her alone—as if she ever would; she has no nerve—Quentin Beck came up like a knight in shining armor and announced that yes, the seat was taken. When the man departed with his tail between his legs, her and Quentin got to talking and, eventually, she offered the seat to him and he gladly took it.

Two hours of talking and all she knows is: he worked for the late Tony Stark in holographic technology, quit to pursue better things, and now operates from his own private business him and a few other ex-employees started. The moment he started talking science, her brain instinctively tried to checkout. A lot of scientific study flies right over her head, and she hates things she doesn’t know one hundred percent.

But the way he speaks about his work…He cares. If there’s one thing [Name] admires, it’s passion, and this man sure as hell has a lot of it. Even if she doesn’t understand the details and logistics, she admires how much he seemingly throws himself into his work. The unabashed ambition only makes him more attractive.

Throughout the ride he talks about the work him and his team are doing, something with projections and simulations for some entertainment purpose. He’s vague, but she doesn’t really care. She watches his face greedily and listens intently as his hands gesture with animation and he rambles a bit. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is and although he’s still kind of a stranger, her heart aches to see this side of him. The way he’s talking…she gets the sense he doesn’t get this opportunity a lot. She’s happy it’s her that gets to see all of this.

The cab slows and the driver asks if they’re close. “Yes, this is the right neighborhood,” says Quentin, interrupting himself and leaning forward to peer out of the windshield. Somewhere during the ride his hand has found her knee and he uses it to support himself as he says, “You can drop us off right here. It’s not far on foot.”

After paying, Quentin helps her out of the taxi and they walk side by side up the street as the car pulls from the curb and disappears in the direction they came. She casts a glance back at it, understanding that her only means of escape is now gone and realizing for the first time what situation she has put herself in: no matter how handsome and kind he may appear, she shouldn’t be so trusting. This could very well be the worst mistake of her life.

She shivers and they stop. They’re alone in the street—it’s well past midnight—and they’re in rural area, meaning getting another ride will be a bit more difficult. “Y’know, if this is too weird, I can call for a cab.” He’s perceptive, she’ll give him that. “I don’t want you feeling…well, I don’t want you to think that you escaped one creep tonight only to run into the arms of another.”

Hugging herself, she casts a glance around the area. The place they’re walking towards is a big warehouse, isolated and behind a big wire fence. “Do you promise not to murder me?” It’s meant as a joke, but a part of her is worried that maybe she’s been blinded by a pretty face. Aren’t serial killers sometimes super charming? He certainly is. Maybe that was a red flag she blatantly ignored.

Quentin huffs out a small laugh. “Pinky promise.”

It’s silly, but she nonetheless giggles. She offers her pinky, half as a joke, but he takes her up on it and they intertwine their fingers. 

He leads her through the gate and across the vast parking lot. As he does, he explains that he and his team come into work every day with the intent of perfecting what is, essentially, his baby. He speaks about his work like it isn’t work, but his life’s purpose. She’s envious. 

The warehouse is larger than she expected. The ceilings are ridiculously high and the echo of their steps is overwhelming. Quentin flicks on some lights and they are, unsurprisingly, very dull and cover the room in a dreamy haze that isn’t helping the alcohol in her. It’s like she walked straight into a hangover. He seems unfazed, though, and goes right towards the machinery gathered in the center of the room.

There are cluttered desks shoved off against the wall. Papers stack each surface, covered in colorful ink marks and notations that, from this far, she can’t guess what they must say. Diagrams litter the walls from every side and it all might as well be written in Swedish. Whatever this all is, it is certainly hard work and she’s impressed with the display of foreign technology before her. So this is what it’s like to work alongside Tony Stark, however briefly it may’ve been.

Quentin goes first to the line of computer screens. “Do you want to see it in action?” he asks, his voice bouncing off of every surface.

An eyebrow raises. Unsure of what to expect, she says, “Uh, sure.”

With the amount of verve in his voice all night, she has no doubt he didn’t undersell, but even then, as he’s booting up the system, she can’t help wondering if she really will be impressed. It’s like in movies when the boy plays a love song on his guitar for the girl he likes and you have to watch, cringing, and wondering what you would do in the awkward situation. That could potentially be her in the next few moments.

“Alright, sweetheart, shut your eyes.”

The small pet name does more for her than it probably should. With a ghost of a smile, she complies and waits in the middle of the room for him to do…something.

She hears the unmistakable whirr of technology at work. Even then it is dull, only heightened by the all-encompassing echo of the warehouse. She feels and hears him step back from the computers and come closer to her. He’s a few feet away when he says, “Open.”

When she does, they’re back outside. The very parking lot they were in just moments ago. Her eyebrows furrow. Logically, she knows that she hasn’t made a step, and yet here they are. It makes her head spin. No, he certainly wasn’t overcompensating this technology. 

“Oh,” she breathes, “oh, wow.”

“Impressed?”

“But…how…”

It’s real. It has to be. Even being told from the beginning that this is false, her brain is still desperate to explain it away. There’s no way it’s all holographic. Somehow, some way, he brought her back outside.

“Science,” he simply says, beaming with pride. “How about we add some rain?”

He returns to the computers, presses a few buttons and drags the cursor, and suddenly a cloud is forming overhead. Despite the night sky, the cloud is visible and as gray as ash and when it cracks open and pours out rain, she can fucking feel it against her skin. The rain patters as real as ever. 

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Quentin laughs and joins her back underneath the cloud. He stretches out a hand, letting the rain hit his palm. “It’s crazy, I know,” he says. “It takes some getting used to.”

“I couldn’t…” She shakes her head. She’s so stunned that words are having a hard time coming up. All she wants to do is stand quiet and give her brain a few minutes to catch up with what she’s seeing. “I can’t wrap my head around any of this.”

“It’s all a projection,” he says.

She sniffs. “Is that…part of it?”

“Your brain is playing tricks on you.” Her stomach sinks with the thought. He adds, “It happens to everyone. You see the rain, you hear it, feel it against your skin, and your brain tells you there must be a smell, too. And because you know the smell of rain, your brain supplies it.”

“This is dangerous,” she says with a bemused laugh. As fascinating as it is—and she almost wants to pick his own brain about it, dig for more facts and read up on the subject—she can’t help feeling disconcerted that he’s the one that created this illusion. What does it say about him that his life’s work is shrouded in lies?

His hand reaches to her hair. It’s wet, plastered down, and he smiles as he feels the droplets sliding down. “I didn’t intend for this to be so romantic,” he says.

“It’s an interesting first date idea,” she comments. “Y’know, you could bring someone anywhere in the world.”

“What about you? Where do you want to be?”

Anywhere…It’s alluring and tantalizing. A million places whip through her mind, but she settles on the one at the forefront: “Can I describe it for you?”

As she does he listens intently, his hand moving down to her neck and rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin there. Her eyes lull at the touch, but she keeps talking through it. He drinks in every word and each time their gazes meet, a dizzy, drunken feeling overtakes her. It’s as if she’s a teenager again, snuggling up to the pretty boy on the bleachers. 

When Quentin steps away to fulfill her request, she feels the loss in her whole self. [Name] doesn’t get told to, but she shuts her eyes again. This next place…She wants to get lost in its memory. 

It takes him longer this time as he pieces together every little detail she offered. It softens her, the idea that he listened to this foreign place with such intensity and he’s working to make it as perfect as possible. He occasionally asks questions— _Where should these go? What time of day?_ —and she answers each one, hovering in the middle of the room, arms hanging by her sides. She hears more fidgeting this time, as if he’s rapidly trying to put it all together. Maybe he’s just trying to get it all on screen before the image escapes him.

Minutes pass. This time Quentin doesn’t tell her to open. The sudden touch of his greedy hands on her arms alert her. She smiles, eyes shut, and his other hand moves up to touch her cheek. His skin is warm, unbearably so, and the heat runs through her like electricity. When his thumb moves around to her chin and grazes her bottom lip, she almost melts right there. 

“You’re the first person I’ve brought here, did you know that?”

“No,” she says. Feeling like being complimented, she asks with a sly smile, “Why me?”

“Do you need to ask? Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

“Shallow,” she teases.

Quentin chuckles. It rumbles in his chest and seems to echo through into her. “I’m a terrible guy, I’ll admit. Are you ready?”

Heart in her throat, she opens her eyes. 

That breathless feeling hits her once again. There’s no way any of this isn’t real. The trees around them tower high as the city’s buildings, canopying the sky, but not so much that the flurries of snowflakes can’t touch down and drift lazily through the air. The twilight sky is still and silent, only a few bird chirps here and there to fill the hush.

It’s the forest behind her childhood home. She hasn’t been there in years, ever since Mom and Dad sold the house, and this has been her only escape there since she was a kid. It brings tears to her eyes, the very idea of being where she once stepped as a young, guileless little girl. When life was simpler and times were happier. Long before the blip.

“Did I nail it?”

“You’re pretty damn close.”

There’s small discrepancies, but just from going off of her word, he did a fantastic job. In real life it isn’t so densely packed and the ground isn’t so flat, but that’s perfectly fine. This is enough. It’s better than she ever imagined it could be.

“Quentin…”

“I’m talented, huh?”

She laughs. “I’m not going to fuel your ego, but I am impressed.”

“What’s different? How can I get it perfect?”

“Less trees, more rugged ground, maybe a bigger moon. In the countryside the moon feels almost…monstrous. In the best way,” she adds.

“Duly noted.” 

“This is so beautiful,” she says, feeling a little too vulnerable at the sound of the words.

Quentin’s hand trails the inside of her forearm. “So are you.”

She snorts. “That was lame.” Lamer so is the fact that cheesy line set her heart racing.

“Tell that to the red in your face.”

Goddammit. Why is she such a teenager sometimes?

As her eyes take it in, memorize every characteristic just to update her memory—even if it isn’t the exact place—she acknowledges the itch that has been at the back of her thoughts ever since he brought up the holographs back at the bar. 

“None of this is real. Of course. But if I can see it, touch it, hear it, and even trick myself into smelling it…what makes it not real?”

She can see in Quentin’s eye that he’s tracking her thought process, but he humors himself and asks with a knowing smile, “How do you mean?”

“Even if this is artificial, isn’t it real if I’m experiencing it? If I wasn’t aware this was fake, what’s to say that, from my perception, I’m not walking away from a real thing?”

“Who’s to say it isn’t? I’ve discussed this with my team: If you experience it, it’s real. No matter the ruse or the theatrics, it’s a human experience you’re having. I could conjure up a demon and that terror you’d feel would be real.”

The falsity is terrifying. One of her biggest fears has always been lies—from the media, from friends, family, from anything. The idea of living in an illusion is haunting. As beautiful as this technology is, she could easily see it driving her insane. What’s to say anything else in your life is real?

“Hey,” he says, catching the downshift in mood. His finger ghosts the inside of her wrist, feeling at her rapid pulse. “You feel real to me. Do I?”

She stares up in his eyes. They’re a warm blue, almost like the ocean, and she curses herself for having such a fanciful thought. He’s human. He’s just a man. But being with him tonight has been one of the most exhilarating experiences in her life—and all they’ve done is talk. That doesn’t happen often to her. She doesn’t connect with people, ever.

Already leaning up on tiptoes, she whispers, “Prove it” and Quentin closes the distance without a moment’s hesitation. Their lips meet and he’s warm, warm, warm. His hand snakes through her hair and grasps her skull, his fingers lightly tickling, as the other hooks around her waist and presses them closer together. A gasp leaves [Name] at the abrupt feeling of contiguity. He’s solid as stone, but holds her like glass.

Her lips part and the slide of his tongue is intoxicating. A small moan leaves her mouth and his fingers dig into the small of her back at the sound, growing desperate. She can taste the cheap beer they talked over earlier, dull and fading in the back of his mouth.

Catching a breath, [Name] breaks the kiss, noses pressed together. Her eyes open a fraction, and perhaps it’s the dizziness of his touch and the closeness, but she swears the left side of his face fades out. His edges blur and he’s vapor. It’s only a second, but it’s long enough for her to take notice and hang on. “Quentin—“

But he captures her anew in a kiss. She frantically tests her senses: she can taste him, certainly; his hands searching her body feel very, _very_ real; she hears the low growl in the back of his throat as he hauls her up and presses her against one of the tree trunks which—Jesus Christ, it’s a real tree. It takes her brain a moment to catch up and remind her, _No. None of this is real. Only you and him._

 _Is_ he? The questions are getting muddled and making her dizzy. His lips move to her throat and she stares up at the snowy sky. She can’t feel the chill, not if she focuses on it. There’s no denying the forest isn’t real, she knows that, but him?

She catches a whiff of his cologne. Alright. Okay. Her heart settles down, assured. 

“You good?” he asks against her mouth as his hands slowly unbutton her jeans. She nods, sliding her lips against his and moaning out when his fingers dip beneath her panties. Her head tilts back against the bark, and she offers a shaky breath that makes him laugh, prideful, deep in his chest.

“So good,” she mutters with shut eyes.

The cologne returns right as a puzzle piece connects. _Your brain is playing tricks on you._ The smell. How would—

_Because you know the smell of rain, your brain supplies it._

Back at the bar, she could smell his cologne. All night, she smelled him as he leaned in for her to hear, any excuse to get close, as he told her about his life’s mission and how science changed him, fundamentally, and made him the man he is today. She knows his cologne. And she knows what she just saw.


End file.
